


Excusez-moi's

by nicholas_de_vilance



Category: Parade's End - All Media Types
Genre: Other, POV Second Person, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicholas_de_vilance/pseuds/nicholas_de_vilance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You want him.  And each time he happens to meet your eye, you can see his own desire clear as day.  Then what the hell are you waiting for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excusez-moi's

**Author's Note:**

> Um...written in an hour...sorry. Needed to be done, apparently. For bcsexualfrustrationblog on tumblr.

Christopher Tietjens.  The epitome of honor and cruelest man you know.  It’s been three weeks of this infuriating dancing around each other, and you watch him from across the room with frustration coloring the very deepest part of you.  You want him.  And each time he happens to meet your eye, you can see his own desire clear as day.  Then what the hell are you waiting for?  Go over then and do something about this stirring of arousal between you.  Run your fingers so subtly up his arm in the way that always makes him shiver so slightly no one could tell.  Whisper into his ear all of the things you want to do to him.

            No, you can’t make the first move.  It’s too much your fault if you try and claim him; the blame gets put on you if you seduce him.  What a bad reputation.  Especially in front of all these people, you wouldn’t dare to solicit him at a party of such high-class people.  You smile and you talk, not giving up your game, but out of the corner of your eye you are watching Mr. Tietjens waltz through the crowd with the errant confidence that spoke volumes of his penchant to absolutely not care what others think of him.  You find this ludicrously attractive.

            Tonight is the night, you decide, and you stand eventually and set your glass delicately on the table.  You go over to him and politely invite yourself into the conversation he is holding with a stuffy politician and his idiotic wife.  Tietjens looks at you for just a moment longer than what is appropriate, and you look right back, challenging him with the gleam in your eyes.

            He offers a few ‘excusez-moi’s before making his exit and you don’t bother to wait several minutes or whatever.  It doesn’t matter to you what people might think.  And if they happen to be right, well good for them.  You can only hope that they are right as you step out into the hallway to get just a glimpse of Tietjens’ backside as he disappeared down the hall.  You follow straight, careful not to seem too eager, though you are.  You’re completely sweating for it.  You can feel the heat rise low in your core and seep between your legs.  You turn the same corner he did to find a ridiculously intricate, almost gaudy door, encrusted with gold-leaf interpretations of several biblical stories.

            After a slow breath, you knock to announce your presence and then enter.  Tietjens is standing beside an ornate, antique, mahogany desk in the center of the library.  One hand in his pocket, contrapposto, looking powerful and at ease like one of the Roman gods.  You smile at him as you aprroach.  “Are we alone?”

            He doesn’t respond other than to walk straight past you and lock the door.  The click sets your heart aflutter, hammering like a jack-rabbit’s.  Every step he takes closer to you is calculated, and you feel the thrumming of your veins in time with his shiny, leather shoes.  Finally he’s standing before you, looking down at you and his hand slides over your waist.  It’s what you’ve waited for all night, for the last three weeks.  His fingertips light your skin on fire, and he leans down to press his lips against the just so sensitive flesh at the top of your neck.  You can’t help a relieved moan—all of the pent up frustration finally spilling out of you.

            Once his deft hands find their way inside of your clothes, once he’s stripping you of that final bit of armor, you come to life.   You tug his tie loose, pulling it from his neck before setting to work on the buttons.  Pulling his shirt up, your hands brush over the soft skin of a man given everything in life, who still yet manages to be beautiful.  You’ve got his dress shirt undone now, despite the way he is distracting you with his tongue drawing patterns on your throat and his hands sliding over your bare skin, dipping between your legs.

            You pull away for just a moment to sink to your knees and press a playful, biting kiss to his belly while you undo his trousers.  When you have him in your hand and against your lips, he braces himself on his arms on the desk behind you.  You offer him the most pleasure you can offer, sucking him into the warm cavern of your mouth, stroking your fingertips over what your lips don’t quite reach.  You are working in earnest, and hearing him pant and gasp for breath makes something deeply intimate seep between your legs.  You can taste that salty, heady flavor of ‘man,’ and your head reels with want of it.

            Suddenly, he’s retreated, having come too close to that delicate edge.  He takes deep, moaning breaths and pulls you courteously up from your knees, kissing your lips with open mouth and tongue.  His palms slide over your chest as he claims you so entirely with that kiss.  Then, he’s urging you up, onto to the desk so that your legs will wrap around his hips and his flush, throbbing arousal slides into your body.

            For a few blinding moments, it is a deep pain that expands and flowers out into sharp blades of pleasure that cause your head to fall back, your mouth open as he thrusts himself into you.  His rhythm has the power and force of a locomotive, unrelenting and merciless.  He kisses you again to smother those intimate noises that you both are making.  You feel him, deep inside of you—reaching depths you hadn’t known existed—and you grasp his back as the heat starts to overwhelm you.  You fall back slightly, but he is there, following, holding you close until your chests are pressed together and your back is sliding over the cool mahogany.

            “Dear God,” he curses breathily, sucking and nipping at your lower lip as his thrusts become increasingly more erratic.  You can feel that sensitive place inside of you brushed over and over again until you are tensing, digging your fingers into his back and tumbling head-first over that delicious edge.  He follows quickly, spilling inside of you with a tender groan.

            Until you realize that moan is your own.  You open your eyes, not remembering when you closed them.  You are still sitting in among the party, your legs crossed in spite of the embarrassing, throbbing heat between them.  Mrs. Havers is still trying to get your attention on behalf of some child of hers, but you can’t be bothered to care.  You look up, scan the room once more to find that Tietjens has gravitated to the fire.  He seems to sense your gaze because he quickly meets your eyes.  When he does, he sees every bit of you in a way that no one else in the room would.  He knows precisely what you’ve been thinking, and that you’ve been thinking it about him.  And he has the audacity to smile at you. 


End file.
